


Not Mombasa

by CoffeeWithConsequences



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-03 00:50:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12737670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeWithConsequences/pseuds/CoffeeWithConsequences
Summary: Eames' feelings for Arthur have slowly developed, but he has no illusions about Arthur returning them. After the Fischer job, Arthur surprises him by inviting him to his home for dinner. Eames is surprised by what results.





	Not Mombasa

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little smut thing I wrote while trying to distract myself from [112 Words for Deception](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12187275/chapters/27668727). One of a million possible first times for Arthur and Eames, without angst. Enjoy!

Mombasa was for licking his wounds. Eames had places he stayed all over the world--most of them he didn’t own, but all of them were available to him at very little notice, either by virtue of friends or by more nefarious means. When he was flush, high on life, with full pockets, he went to San Paulo. When he needed to lay low and be sure nobody was following him, he prefered either a cottage on the beach in Thailand or an easy-to-lose flat in Moscow, depending on the season. When he was melancholy, he tended land in London. But shame, the taste of a bad job a bad affair, a big gambling loss, those thing sent him to Mombasa. 

He’d been there for three weeks when Cobb showed up. He was both surprised to see him and not, happy to see him and not. He knew someone would come eventually, or call, or send a fucking carrier pigeon. He hadn’t been waiting to be summoned, exactly, but he’d know he would be. The noise and mess Arthur and Cobb had been making as they took a string of progressively stupider and more dangerous jobs had sent out waves, and Eames knew one of them would bring him to their shore eventually.

If he hadn’t been just about ready to reenter the world anyway, he might have said no. At least, that’s what he told himself, sitting in the airport, waiting for his flight to Sydney to observe Peter Browning. He might have told Cobb to find someone else to take on his next harebrained death wish adventure. He might have even told Arthur, who would certainly be the next one who came, had Cobb failed, that he was out of the business of saving their asses. But he had been just about ready, so they’d come at the right time.

Inception, in and of itself, didn’t interest Eames overmuch. The attempt his team had made to do it years earlier, when his dream sharing was as legitimate as it was ever likely to be, had been a letdown, and that was back when just having more than one layer in a dream was something new and exciting. Always a thief first, Eames tended to be more interested in taking things from people’s minds than in leaving them behind. But Dom Cobb, if nothing else, had a power of persuasion. Eames was always a sucker for a man with nothing left to lose.

All of that was without considering Arthur. While he was working in Sydney, Eames spent as much time as possible not considering Arthur. Given the tension on their last meeting, six or seven months earlier, there was no way to know what kind of reception he should expect, and he was equally unsure what type he should give. 

The last job they’d worked together had been a spectacular cock-up, due mostly to Eames’ inability to keep his dick out of their mark’s wife. He hadn’t realized that’s who she was when he started with her, of course--she appeared to be just another rich, bored woman lounging around the pool at the resort they were working out of--but when he found out, he didn’t stop it. It was perverse, really--once he had some time to reflect, he could admit to himself that most of the reason he did it was to irritate Arthur. It had ended up more than an irritation, though, and had gotten the whole team made the night before the extraction was to take place. If he hadn’t been the best alive at what he did, Eames was certain Arthur would never have agreed to work with him again.

But he was the best, and so he spent three weeks in Sydney, bored off his ass in an office, observing Peter Browning. Then it was off to Paris, to meet the rest of the team Cobb had wrangled into this desperate caper, and to face Arthur.

It hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. Arthur remained condescending, on the best day, and absolutely nasty any other, but that wasn’t a big change from another other job with him. As the days wore on, and it became apparent that Eames’ plans were actually the ones--if anything--that would make this job possible, Arthur thawed further. He wasn’t friendly, exactly, but he seemed less certain that every move Eames made would be the death of them all. 

At night, in his hotel room, Eames wondered idly why he cared so much what Arthur thought. So long as he wasn’t being black-balled, why did it matter? The path of destruction Arthur was on with Cobb couldn’t last forever, and if Arthur came off it alive, Eames would want to work with him again--he wasn’t lying when he told Cobb that Arthur was the best at what he did. But beyond that, did he really care if Arthur thought he was a liability?

Eames and Arthur had moved in the periphery of each other’s lives for years by then. Before Mal died, when Arthur worked with both Cobbs, he kept more of his activities legal, but he was never all that interested in playing it perfectly straight. On occasion, he’d turn up on something Eames was working under the table--if the payout was particularly big or the problem particularly interesting. On the other side of the coin, the Cobbs’ team occasionally asked Eames to consult on something they were working on, mostly academic. He wasn’t much for the role, but he’d always liked Mal, and when she called, he typically agreed. 

To say that Eames and Arthur had disliked each other at first would be an understatement. Upon their first meeting, as they took stock of each other, they came to remarkably similar conclusions, each finding the other cocky, untrustworthy, and unpleasant. Eames hated Arthur’s suits. Arthur despised Eames’ constantly having something in his mouth. They found each other’s accents grating. They found each other’s polar opposite working styles infuriating. They argued endlessly. Everybody around them suffered.

Then there was a completely unexpected in-dream firefight, and they slipped into a pattern without any thought. Both originally military, both with minds for strategy and eyes for completely different details, they worked together like they’d been doing it for decades. They barely needed to speak, each was exactly where the other needed him at exactly the right time. 

When they’d come out and cleaned up, neither of them said a word about how they’d performed together in the dream. On their next job together, they still argued, but the vitriol was mostly gone. Neither of them had any desire to be friends, but they knew now that they were teammates, and that was enough. 

Eames wasn’t sure when it changed. It had happened slowly, over the course of several years and maybe a dozen jobs. He was still infuriated by Arthur most of the time, but the respect born of seeing him on a battlefield grew into something else. He started to notice just how completely Arthur had everybody’s back, at every moment, during a job. He realized that Arthur was not Dom and Mal’s errand boy or their attack dog, but rather a partner in their work, with his own ideas. He saw Arthur build, and found beauty in his mind he would have never imagined. He started to notice little thing about Arthur--not cataloging them for later use, as was his habit, but just appreciating them. Arthur’s too-sweet coffee, Arthur’s fastidious handwriting, Arthur’s reckless driving. First he respected him, then he noticed him, and then he liked him.

The trouble, as Eames saw it, was that it never went that far for Arthur. He knew he’d earned Arthur’s respect, both as a fellow soldier, when that was necessary, and as a master thief and forger, which was more often the need. He knew Arthur was comfortable working with him. On occasion, though not often, Arthur seemed even to respect or appreciate his ideas in the planning of a job. But that was it. While he was noticing Arthur’s details, learning to admire his brains and his loyalty and his precision, Arthur was still barely able to tolerate his presence.

All his life, Eames had been able to charm people, often without trying. If he wanted someone to like him, they did. There had only been two exceptions--the people who parented him. He couldn’t make someone like him forever, as he had more than his fair share of former lovers and former friend to prove, but he could make them like him for long enough to give him a chance. Not Arthur. 

He tried to convince himself that, as was the case with his parents, Arthur was simply such a miserable prick that he wasn’t able to like anybody. But he knew that wasn’t true. For one thing, Arthur liked Cobb. He’d loved Mal. For all that he had a stick up his ass most days, Arthur never displayed the absolute lack of joy in being alive that Eames’ parents had. Arthur enjoyed what he did, whether it was collating research or taking point in a firefight. Arthur liked music, and movies, and video games. Arthur loved paradoxes. Arthur could build cathedrals with his brain. He was capable of liking--even loving, probably. He just didn’t like Eames. So it was that Eames found himself unable to stop trying to alienate and infuriate Arthur. Because if he couldn’t make Arthur like him, then making him feel something else was the next best thing. Arthur almost never rose to the bait. He rolled his eyes and smirked and made the occasional sarcastic comment, but he mostly seemed to find Eames a mildly amusing irritant. Once he was out of Arthur’s direct line of sight, Eames was fairly sure Arthur never considered him at all. 

The sexual attraction was the last part to develop. Eames’ sexuality was and always had been open and far-reaching, so it wasn’t that he wouldn’t realize he was attracted to a man. He was also long aware of how handsome Arthur was, with his spare, strong body and boyish, dimpled face. But it took until the job previous to Fischer, with the rich wife, for Eames to realize, suddenly and painfully, that he wanted Arthur. Had been wanting Arthur. Wanted Arthur so fucking badly it built up in his body and nearly came out of his mouth in gasps. The switch had flipped in him and it was all he could to keep it down. 

Making any sort of move was out of the question. Eames could easily imagine Arthur being the type who would fuck someone he despised, if he felt it would give him an upper hand, but Eames wasn’t. Much as he liked to fuck around, Eames was as careful as he could reasonably be with emotions--his own and other people’s. He knew that even if he could get in Arthur’s pants that way, with a fast, hard, ruthless fuck, it would only make him feel worse. He didn’t just want Arthur to fuck him, he wanted Arthur to like him.

So he was stuck, and horny, and angry. Which led to the mark’s wife and all of that nonsense. Eames had returned to Mombasa after that job, too, with shame on his shoulders. That was when he’d met Yusef, who’d been a welcome distraction. Then another job, then another. 

Now he was in a warehouse in Paris, a city he hated, watching Arthur display patience and kindness beyond what he had assumed possible, to their prepubescent architect. It wasn’t that Eames didn’t like Ariadne--he liked her quite a lot, actually--but something about the way Arthur treated her made his eyes roll. It was ridiculous in the first place because Arthur was not, so far as Eames had ever known or heard, interested in women. Beyond that, though, the idea that brilliant, exacting, dangerous Arthur could honestly be considering anything with as newly hatched and wide-eyed a bird as this one was beyond Eames’ reckoning. 

It wasn’t as if Arthur was making obvious moves on her or anything--that would never be his style. But he was listening when she spoke, smiling at her, leaning his head close. Eames had the feeling of watching something unfold between two teenagers. Beyond making him jealous (he could admit it, there was nothing emasculating about it), it made him feel fucking old.

Which was, come to think of it, probably another reason he’d been in Mombasa. Eames didn’t set much store by birthdays, and all of his passports had differents ones on them, but he remembered his real birthday, the actual date and year of his birth. And, just two weeks ago, the fortieth anniversary of that date had come and past. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but he’d known. Every morning since, as he woke and felt the twinges and pains of spending more than twenty of those forty years doing dangerous things and occasionally getting caught, he’d known. Time was passing.

What a ridiculous strop he’d gotten himself into! Pushing away from his desk, Eames realized he was just as irritated with himself as he was with Arthur. Whatever Arthur was playing at with the college girl wasn’t going to be anything long-lasting, and even if it were, did it matter? It wasn’t as if there was any chance of Arthur’s kindness being leveled in his direction either way. Though he apparently still hadn’t quite wrapped his mind around it, Arthur just didn’t fucking like him.

After stomping out without explanation, Eames found himself a dive bar. Given the part of the city they were in, it wasn’t all that tough. Dive bars in Paris never seemed quite right to him, but it would have to do. He sat the counter, didn’t try not to look sullen, and began to steadily drink himself stupid. It was, as far as doing stupid things goes, pretty low on his list. He’d never been all that dedicated a drunk, preferring gambling and stealing and inappropriate sexual conquests for destructive behavior. But for now, this would do.

He was neck deep in the bottle before Arthur showed up. It had been maybe two hours since he left the warehouse. It was still light out. 

“Eames, what the fuck are you doing?” Arthur took the stool next to his, looking even more out of place than usual in his polished shoes and buttoned cuffs.

“Arthur, I am drinking. What the fuck are you doing?” Eames was happy to hear his voice wasn’t slurring. He thought that, so long as he didn’t try to get up from the stool, he’d probably be able to convince Arthur he was sober enough to see to himself. Then Arthur would leave. His responsibility extended only so far as to make sure his team members weren’t likely to get hurt.

“And why is it you’re drinking on a job, in the middle of the afternoon?” Arthur was certainly annoyed, but he didn’t sound actually angry. 

“Because I want to.” Eames knew he sounded like a petulant child, but there wasn’t really a way he could see to adequately explain to Arthur why he’d found himself on this barstool. He glanced over, trying to be casual as he took Arthur in. He was pressed and buttoned up as usual, but a piece of his hair was coming ungelled on the left side of his head. Eames had to fight back the urge to reach over and pull it.

“That’s not good enough, Eames.”

Eames wondered if Arthur thought that tone of voice sounded patient. It didn’t, but it certainly did sound strained. “Sorry,” he said, making it perfectly clear that sorry was the last thing he was. Then he tapped the bar and lifted his empty glass, making eye contact with the bartender.

“You’re already drunk, aren’t you?” Arthur looked at him a bit closer. Eames met his eyes and once again committed their exact brown to memory. He’d never tried to forge Arthur, but he was sure he could, should the opportunity arise.

“Yes.” There was no reason to lie. If Arthur stayed much longer, it was going to be clear, if it wasn’t already.

“This is incredibly irresponsible…” 

Arthur went on, but Eames stopped listening, as he was just giving a slightly modified version of the speech he’d given on the last job. He didn’t tune back in until just before Arthur stopped for breath, saying “and I don’t know what it is about me that you just cannot manage to respect, but whatever it is, get over it. You don’t have to like me, but don’t fuck up jobs over it.”

Hazy, Eames held up a hand. “Hold on,” he said, and now he was slurring, but just a bit. “What the fuck are you on about? What does respecting you have to do with anything?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Eames, I hear everything. That’s my job. I know you don’t pull this shit on other people’s jobs. Fucking marks, storming out and getting drunk in the middle of the day--you save that kind of thing for me.”

Eames laughed. “What if I told you it has nothing to do with you, you conceited prat?”

“I’d think you were lying.” Arthur wasn’t smiling. “I understand that you don’t like me, but I thought we’d learned to respect each other, to work well together. Lately, though…”

Eames was quiet for a moment. If he weren’t drunk, it would be much easier for him to roll with this, but his mind was pretty muddled. Finally, he said, “Arthur, I have as much respect for you as I always have.”

“Then what is your goddamn problem?” Arthur was clearly pissed off, but also looked confused. “Did something happen before this job? Are you OK?”

It was Eames’ turned to be puzzled. “Before the job? No. What makes you ask that?”

“You were in Mombasa.”

That was a nonsense explanation. “Yes, Arthur. I am often in Mombasa.”

“Mombasa is where you go when you’ve fucked something up.”

Eames stared. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. Mombasa is where you head when you’ve gotten yourself in trouble. Not stay-in-hiding trouble, regular person trouble.”

How the fuck could Arthur possibly know that? It wasn’t even something Eames really thought about consciously himself, though it was certainly true when he looked back over where he spent his time. These thoughts must all have shown on his drunk face, because Arthur answered the question he hadn’t asked. “I pay attention to where you are, Eames. And to what you’ve been up to.”

From most people, that would be cause for concern, or at least cause to be a little creeped out. From Arthur, it was simultaneously terrifying and intriguing. “Why is that, do you think?” Eames managed to murmur, his lips suddenly dry. 

“Why is that, do you think?” Arthur repeated, the tone changed. His eyes held a challenge. Then he stood. “I’m going back to work. Don’t do this again.”

Eames was still staring at his retreating figure when the door closed.

It was probably not the smartest decision, but Eames continued drinking as he thought through his conversation with Arthur. He hated to stop a job before it was done. By the time he got back to his hotel, he was fully, obnoxiously pissed. Luckily, he didn’t see anybody on his way to his room. When he got there, he thought briefly about a wank, but then passed out face down on the made hotel bed, fully clothed.

When he woke up, he felt like he’d been kicked around some, but it certainly wasn’t the worst hangover he’d ever had. After aspirin and water and a shower, and then coffee and breakfast, he was more or less human. He was only about an hour later than he should have been showing up at the warehouse.

Nobody paid him any mind. The work continued--the model building, the planning, the practice. They were waiting now, to find out how soon their scheme would be put into action, so it was all just finishing touches. Watching closely, as always, Eames saw how worried little Ariadne’s face was, especially when she looked at Cobb. He thought again that she shouldn’t be here. The last thing in the world this job needed was the added complication of keeping her safe. 

Arthur had his head down, concentrated, and didn’t make any mention of the afternoon before. Eames took his cue and stayed busy with his own tasks. The day passed, and then the next and the next. Eames never stopped thinking about Arthur, and about what Arthur possibly could have meant by letting him know he was watching, and that he knew why he went to Mombasa. But there would be time to ask that later, after they pulled off the impossible.

Inside the dream, he and Arthur worked together as they always had, seemless. No matter how dangerous things were--and it turned out that they were far more so than he’d bargained for--Arthur was always the best person to have at your back, or by your side, and he was thankful for it. 

Then it came to light that Arthur made a mistake. Of all the things, Arthur missed Fischer’s sub-security. Cobb was furious and guilty and scared. Arthur didn’t fight back, at least not like he could have--his fear of his own failure, and of it costing his team, was written plainly on his face. That was the moment that Eames knew. He knew that this fondness he’d been growing for Arthur was the real thing. He knew, when he wanted to cover Arthur’s body with his, when he wanted to stand between Cobb’s screaming face and Arthur’s calm one, that he wanted more than Arthur’s respect, wanted more than Arthur’s grudging friendship. He was even more fucked than he’d previously thought.

There was no time, in the dream, to think about it. There was no time to do anything other than survive, try to see the job through. After they all came up, blinking and astonished, sitting in their first class seats, there was time, but no energy. After what they’d all just been through, all Eames could think about was a shower, a bed, sleep that didn’t hold an ax over all of their heads. So, while he waited at baggage claim, thinking about that bed and nothing else, he was startled to feel Arthur come up beside him.

For a moment, Arthur was quiet, watching the carousel spin. Then he looked at Eames. He looked so tired, his face pale and drawn, the circles under his eyes pronounced. “What are you doing next?” he asked finally, his voice low.

“Going to a hotel and sleeping for twenty hours straight,” Eames responded. 

“And after that?” 

“I don’t know yet. Another job, soon.” It was strange that Arthur was asking, especially in public. Nobody was paying them the slightest attention, but it was still outside Arthur’s normal level of caution. “Why?”

Arthur shrugged. “I thought maybe we should...have dinner or something. If you’re staying in L.A. for a few days.”

Eames’ eyebrows shot up. What was this? Arthur didn’t do anything without a reason--what was the reason here. “Why?” he asked, caution in his voice.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Eames. I’m making an entreaty, here. I thought you might want to continue the conversation we had that afternoon in the bar.” He looked briefly worried. “You do remember talking to me in the bar, right?”

Eames smirked. “Yes, Arthur, I remember.” There was nothing to do but see where this was going, strange as it might be. “Sure, I’d love to have dinner. Tomorrow?”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll text you the address.”

Eames’ forehead creased. “Address? You can just give me the name of the restaurant.”

Arthur shook his head. “No restaurant. I’m cooking.” Without another word, he turned and grabbed his luggage, headed toward the door before Eames could even respond.

The shower and bed were everything he’d hoped. Eames didn’t sleep for twenty hours, but he did manage about ten. Once he woke up, he puttered around, answered some emails, watched some telly, and tried not to freak the fuck out about his evening plans.

Arthur had texted an address, but not mentioned any particular time. In a completely uncharacteristic move, Eames actually spent a few minutes worrying about what time he should arrive. “You’re thinking about this like it’s a date, mate,” he muttered at himself in the mirror as he shaved. “It’s not a fucking date. Calm down.”

But he couldn’t help it. It felt like a date. After deciding eight o’clock was the most reasonable dinner hour he could come up with, he dressed carefully, using the same trousers he’d used on the plane, with a less formal shirt and no jacket. After considering it a moment, he slipped condom and a packet of lube in his wallet. Never hurt to cover all contingencies.

Eames would never understand southern California. It took goddamn forever to get anywhere, and even when he thought he was leaving himself lots of time, he ended up late. So it was about 8:30 when his taxi dropped him off in front of a neat house in a quiet neighborhood, holding a bottle of nice bourbon (wine would be too much like a date). He took a deep breathe and strolled up the sidewalk. He walked slowly, taking in every detail, unable to reconcile the idea of Arthur with this very normal house. The architecture was Californian, Spanish-style, the yard neat and full of well-tended water-conserving plants. All of it seemed much more appropriate for an up and coming upper-middle-class family than for Arthur. Eames grinned. At the very least, he was going to learn something.

Arthur answered the door in gray trousers and a white button-down, the arms rolled to the elbow. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or a tie; his hair wasn’t slicked back. He looked...comfortable. At home. Eames’ mind spun.

“Hey,” Arthur said, immediately reaching out for the bottle of bourbon in Eames’ hand. “Did you have any trouble getting out here from downtown?” He stepped aside, ushering Eames in.

“No, just took a bloody long time,” Eames said, looking around so fast his head nearly spun. The door opened into a small, tile-floored foyer, light streaming in from big windows and skylights. “Arthur, is this your house?”

Arthur smiled. “Yes. One of them, anyway. Come on in. I know you’re going to nose around, so go ahead and do it.”

The house was open concept, with one large living space and a kitchen separated only by a bar. The overall impression was one of light and casual color. It was the very opposite of the chrome-and-glass penthouse Eames had imagined. The living room housed shelves full of books, a big TV, what looked to be several video gaming systems. There was a turntable hooked to a stereo, and a crate of records.

“Isn’t what you expected?” Arthur asked. He was behind the kitchen island, pouring bourbon into two ice-filled glasses. “You look shocked.”

“Not what I’d have envisioned you picking, no.” 

Arthur stepped across the room and handed Eames one of the glasses. “I didn’t,” he said. “I inherited it.”

Eames looked at him quizzically, waiting for him to say more. 

Arthur considered it for a moment, then continued. “This was my parents’ house,” he said. “I grew up here.”

Eames could have fallen over from his shock. Not only had Arthur invited him to his home, he’d invited him to his childhood home. He had no idea what to say, and recovered with the non-smooth. “You don’t seem like you’re from California.”

Arthur nodded and smiled a little. “I’ve heard that before,” he agreed. “But I am, born and raised. I can even surf.” 

Eames was once again astonished, his mind trying to wrap its way around the idea of Arthur on a surfboard.

“Anyway, I don’t stay here all that often,” Arthur continued. “But it’s nice, sometimes. Quiet.”

Eames nodded and took a drink. He was learning so much so fast. Why was Arthur allowing him in like this? He was suspicious of the motives, but certainly curious enough to see how it played out. 

The next surprise was that Arthur could cook. They ate on a small table on the outside patio, under an honest-to-fuck palm tree. The meal was simple--rare cold beef, spinach salad, crusty bread--and delicious. Arthur opened a bottle of wine to go with it, and they ate companionably, chatting mostly about the job, each telling the story of the level the other hadn’t seen. It was remarkably friendly, but there was an undercurrent of tension, something else brewing.

After dinner, they cleared the table and did the few dishes together while they finished the wine. It was still early, and Arthur poured them each another drink and led Eames to the overstuffed living room sofa. 

Eames felt tipsy, but not drunk. He was sated, his head pleasantly buzzed, his belly full. “Now,” Arthur said, taking a seat on the opposite end of the couch and looking at Eames intently. “What the fuck is going on?”

Eames scowled. There went his relaxed buzz. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said stubbornly.

“Bullshit, Eames. The last couple of jobs we’ve worked, you have acted so weird. The thing with the mark’s wife, that was beneath you. And then this past job--you were brilliant while we were in it, but you were a complete dickhead the rest of the time. What the hell is up with you?”

“I apologized for the thing with the mark’s wife--that was a bad call,” Eames began.

Arthur interrupted. “I don’t want an apology. That’s over with, and you more than redeemed yourself when you pulled off this clusterfuck. I just don’t want this to happen again. If you can’t work with me for some reason, then we need to stop trying.” He frowned. “I don’t get it, though. We’re obviously capable of getting along just fine,” he gestured around to refer to the evening they’d just spent. “And in dream, we’re a great team. So...what is it?”

It was well within Eames’ skill set to come up with a suitable on-the-spot explanation for his odd behavior. Perhaps even one that Arthur would buy. But, with the wine and whiskey buzzing in his head, and the nice breeze finally coming in from the open patio door, with Arthur having trusted him enough to invite him to this house, he just didn’t feel like lying. “You’re right,” he finally said, “it’s you. But not the way you think.”

Arthur frowned. “What does that mean?”

Eames sighed. He was sure he was going to end up humiliated at the end of this, but at least it would be done with. It wasn’t like he’d never been humiliated before. “I...I’ve developed some sort of feelings for you,” he said. “At first, I thought it was just that I respected you. Which I do. And then, I thought it was that I wanted to fuck you. Which I really, really do. But it’s more than that, too.” He couldn’t stop now. “I like you. I want you to like me. And you don’t, and that’s fine, but that’s what it is.” The last part was rushed, as if were something hot he needed to get out of his mouth before it burned him.

For a moment, Arthur just stared. Eames steeled himself for the rejection he knew was coming, unsure as to whether Arthur would be kind. But Arthur didn’t say anything. Instead, he stood, deliberately and slowly, keeping his eyes on Eames as if making sure he didn’t scare away, and took a step closer, standing between Eames’ knees as Eames remained sitting on the couch. For an instant, Eames thought Arthur was going to start punching him, and he was already irritated at that overreaction. Instead, though, Arthur leaned down, bracketing Eames’ head against the back of the sofa with his arms, and kissed him.

The kiss was slow, soft, and wet. At first, just a press of Arthur’s warm, whiskey-flavored lips against Eames’ unmoving and shocked mouth. Then a harder press, then the tip of Arthur’s tongue encouraging Eames’ mouth to catch up. From there, it was all instinct, Eames opening his lips and leading Arthur’s tongue inside with his own, his teeth against Arthur’s bottom lip, the increase of pressure. Arthur steadied himself on his hands, leaning in farther and kissing harder, but didn’t let up.

Finally, Arthur pulled away and stood. His lips were dark, his chest rising and falling quickly as he regained his breath. “I do like you,” he said, the words deceptively simple. 

Eames wanted to ask what meant. He wanted to ask why Arthur had invited him here, rather than to neutral ground. He wanted to demand all kinds of answers. Instead, he reached toward Arthur again, twining his hands around Arthur’s slim wrists, and tugged him back down. His head was swimming with the liquor and the confusion and the taste of Arthur’s mouth. 

Arthur complied easily, this time resting his knees against the sofa, one on either side of Eames. He ran one hand through Eames’ hair as they kissed again, loosening it from the pomade. Eames wrapped his arms around Arthur’s back, pulling him closer so it wasn’t just their mouths, but their bodies touching. As he bit Arthur’s bottom lip again, harder this time, Arthur began to grind down against him, and the blood rushed south.

They snogged on the couch for a long time, barely breaking apart for breath. It wasn’t something Eames typically did--maybe not since his early 20s. Sex always seemed faster than this as an adult. But Arthur’s weight on him was warm and solid, Arthur’s mouth persistent. Eames let his hands roam down, cupping Arthur’s perfect ass and squeezing, and Arthur ground against him harder in return, then ran one hand between them, down his chest, and back up to begin unbuttoning his shirt. When Arthur nudged at his jaw, Eames tilted his head back obligingly, allowing Arthur’s mouth to move down his throat as he worked the buttons.

Later, when Eames’ shirt was hanging off him unbuttoned, and Eames had stripped Arthur of his belt in order to more easily shove his hands down the back of Arthur’s trousers, Arthur pulled away, just a few inches. “Come to bed with me,” he said, lifting himself up and off Eames’ lap. He looked debauched, his first few buttons undone, his hair wild, his lips swollen. His trousers were comically tented by his erection. He was unphased, looking only at Eames. “Come on.”

Eames stood immediately. A niggle at the back of his mind reminded him that just sex wasn’t what he wanted with Arthur, but he silenced it. He hadn’t been expecting this. He hadn’t been expecting dinner and snogging on the couch and a clear, kind invitation. His best case scenario had been a hard, fast, adrenaline fuck. He wasn’t going to turn this down.

Arthur’s bedroom was large and airy and very neat, the colors more muted than the living room. The bed was big and covered in fluffy white bedding, looking oddly like one you’d find in a hotel. There was a lamp on the dressed, bathing the room in warm, gold light. It occurred to Eames that it would be odd to leave the that lamp on in daylight, unless one was expecting this. The thought made him grin idiotically, which Arthur luckily did not see.

Standing at the end of his bed, Arthur began unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, then dropped it on the floor. They held eye contact as Eames shrugged his off his shoulders as well. Arthur reached toward him and ran both palms down his chest and then up over his arms. This happened often enough with other lovers for Eames to know what it was--Arthur was admiring him, his tattooed, heavily muscled torso and arms. He tilted his head and smiled, but said nothing. He could tease Arthur, but that might make him stop. 

After a moment, Arthur ran his hands down Eames’ stomach to his belt and began undoing the buckle. Eames barely realized he was holding his breath as Arthur unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, then he shook his hips automatically to make them fall to the floor. In just his boxers, his cock was obvious, thick and completely hard against him, absurd. Before he could get his hands on Arthur’s trousers, Arthur continued, pulling the waistband of his pants out and pushing them down his hips. Eames stepped slightly away so he could step out of the trousers and pants, as well as toeing off his loafers. Then he stood in front of Arthur, completely naked.

Arthur made no effort not to stare. He took in Eames’ body in long, hot looks. His breathing quickened and his eyes burned. Used to being looked at as he was, Eames wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so fully eye-fucked. “You’re incredible,” Arthur finally said, looking back up to his eyes. “Jesus.”

Eames felt suddenly shy, a feeling he came upon so rarely he barely recognized it. “Thank you,” he said. He stepped toward Arthur and reached for his trousers. Arthur stood still and let him remove them, and then his underwear. Then Eames got his eyeful as well. Arthur was as spare and trim in the nude as he’d expected, compact muscle clear under his pale skin. Almost no chest hair, a tidy, trimmed triangle of dark hair above his cock. He was hard, cut, slightly bent. He looked at ease. 

“You’re lovely,” Eames said. It wasn’t the type of comment he’d expect Arthur to appreciate, but given Arthur’s starting it, he certainly wasn’t about to let his appreciation go unnoticed. 

Arthur didn’t answer, but he did smile. Then he moved toward Eames again, wrapped his arms around Eames’ neck, and kissed him. This time it was hard, needy, without finesse. His cock nudged against Eames’ and they both drew in sharp breaths.

“What do you…” Eames trailed off, distracted by Arthur’s mouth, which was once again moving down his neck. “Mmmmm…”

“What makes you think I have a plan?” Arthur asked. Eames could fill him smiling against his jugular. 

“I’ve met you,” Eames murmured, allowing himself, for the briefest moment, to nose at Arthur’s head and smell his shampoo. It was a gesture far more intimate than was appropriate, but he couldn’t help himself. 

Arthur continued to move his mouth down Eames’ body. Eames leaned his head back and let him, focusing on the zing of pleasure every touch sent through him. Then, like something out of a fantasy, Arthur slipped easily to his knees on the floor. He took his time, using his lips and teeth to explore the thin skin between Eames’ hip bones and the edge of his pubic hair. Eames tried to hold himself still, but completely failed when Arthur finally took his cock between his lips, not swallowing it down, but holding the first few inches in his mouth, getting a feel for it. “Oh fuck,” he gasped. Arthur took that as a sign to continue, wrapping his hands around Eames’ hips to hold him in place and swallowing him most of the way down, then beginning a rhythm. Eames reached out to steady himself on the bed, not sure he was going to be able to stay on his feet. 

Arthur, it turned out, gave fantastic head. He didn’t do anything tricky, but his natural persistence and consistency shone. Before long, Eames was wrapping his hands into Arthur’s hair and pulling him gently off. “If you keep that up, I’m going to come down your throat.” 

Arthur shivered. Eames had just enough cognizant thought left to wonder why, and then to realize it was his voice. Arthur was reacting to his voice. Jesus. Arthur wanted him to talk. Could this get any more unlikely? 

“Get up here,” he rumbled, holding a hand down to pull Arthur up. “Kiss me again.”

Arthur did it, pushing in hard, his mouth far more aggressive on Eames’ mouth than it had been on his dick. It took until he was flopping onto it for Eames to realize Arthur had been pushing him toward the bed. Feeling suddenly that he was being outperformed, Eames pulled Arthur down after him, flipping him easily and bracketing his sprawled body with his own. “Do you want to be in charge here?” he asked, keeping his voice low and rumbling. “Or is this a free-for-all?” He watched, this time, and saw his voice go through Arthur again.

Arthur grinned again, full dimples, eyes shining in the lamp light. Before Eames could get over the latest wave of amazement, he shocked him even further. “I top from the bottom,” he said. “Consider yourself warned.”

Eames knew his eyes must be bugging out, because then Arthur laughed. “Is that a yes?” he asked, pushing himself up to rub against Eames’ thigh. “Are you going to fuck me, Eames?’

“Christ, yes.” Eames spoke louder than he’d intended. He bent down and kissed Arthur again, and suddenly there were hands everywhere. Arthur was pulling him down closer with palms across his ass, he was holding Arthur’s face in one hand and trying to shove the other between them to get at Arthur’s cock.

Arthur pulled away and laughed again, flipped them just as easily as Eames had, so that they were lying on their sides, facing each other. “Try that, might work better,” he said. Eames did as he was told, getting his hand on Arthur’s cock as quickly as he possibly could.

As he stroked Arthur, Eames started talking again. It was nonsense now, repeating how he was going to fuck him, how good he felt, how gorgeous he was. It seemed to work for Arthur, though, his body arching against Eames’ hand as Eames spoke into his ear. “Come on,” Arthur finally panted. “I asked you to fuck me.” He pulled away and turned over to rummage in a bedside table drawer, coming out quickly with a condom and a bottle of lube.

Eames watched as Arthur did his own prep. He didn’t seem to want help. He laid back against the pillows with his legs spread and his knees up, working himself open quickly, his fingers clearly practiced. Eames stroked himself as he watched with wide eyes.

After he could easily use two fingers, Arthur stopped and raised his eyebrows in a clear invitation. Eames glanced down at his cock. He knew it was on the bigger side of average. “That’s not going to be enough.”

Arthur grinned again. “Awfully confident,” he said. “I know what I’m doing. I want to feel it.”

The comment shot straight down into his balls and Eames though for a horrifying instant that he was going to come before they’d even started. “OK,” he managed, his voice more squeak than murmur now. 

Arthur didn’t seem inclined to move, so Eames pushed himself between Arthur’s legs, standing on his knees. He put on the condom with a shaking hand, then pushed in very slowly. The resistance was incredible, and he forced himself to stop. “This is going to hurt,” he said, unable to draw his eyes away from where just the tip of his cock entered Arthur’s body.

“It’s fine,” Arthur said, beginning to rock against him, trying to get Eames in further from his angle. “I’m not going to beg.”

“Nor will you have to,” Eames mumbled, pushing forward again, still slowly, but with more force. He watched Arthur’s face, looking for signs he should stop. Arthur was tense, breathing hard, his lips open, but his hips rocked, his cock twitched against his belly. He was waiting, and he wanted it.

When he’d finally pushed all the way in, Eames stopped to take control of himself, amazed by the tight heat. It had to have been a long time for Arthur. He kept himself from asking. Instead, he picked up one of Arthur’s legs, wrapping it around his waist. Arthur followed with the other, and he began to rock. He went slowly at first, staying all the way in and just moving a bit, continuing the stretch. Arthur’s eyes were closed, clearly concentrating. 

After a few minutes, Arthur opened his eyes and looked up at Eames. “More now,” he breathed. “Harder. I’m ready.”

Eames did as he was told, increasing his pace and starting to push in harder, then pull out farther. Arthur’s body braced against the mattress and his hips lifted to meet Eames’ thrusts. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Yes. Like that.”

Eames forgot that he’d meant to keep talking, struck silent by the incredible sight of Arthur in front of him, underneath him, taking his cock. It was trancelike, moving in and out of Arthur, hearing his own panting breath mix with Arthur’s. Arthur was talking now, demanding more, demanding there, demanding NOW. Eames obeyed each directive, and Arthur was soon arching off the bed and wrapping his hand around his own cock, jerking himself off hard. His eyes weren’t closed anymore, and he locked them with Eames as he came, gasping, over his fist.

It took perhaps three or four more hard strokes before Eames followed, groaning loudly, reaching out to brace himself with his hand and finding only air. He was able to right himself before toppling over, but just barely. 

After a moment to catch his breath, Eames carefully pulled out, removing the condom and tying it off, then glancing around for a bin. Arthur jerked his chin toward the other side of the bed and Eames leaned over him to toss it in, then flopped down next to Arthur. They were quiet for a few minutes, both returning their breathing to normal. After a while, Arthur got up and went into the bathroom. After a minute of running water, he returned and laid back down.

By that time, all of the questions Eames hadn’t asked were rushing back. Why had this happened? What was Arthur after? Could it (please, God) happen again?

“I can hear you thinking,” Arthur said, his voice more normal now than it had been.

Eames propped himself up on one elbow and looked at Arthur, lying on his back. “Gotta admit, I’m confused,” he said. “What was this about?”

Arthur cracked one eye open. “It was about I like you, too. It was about I want to fuck you, too.” He frowned. “Is that enough?”

Eames thought a moment. It might not be. But it was certainly more than he thought he’d get. “Yeah,” he finally said. “For now, that’s enough.”

“OK, then,” Arthur said, smiling that dimpled smile again and closing his eyes.

Later, they lay together, not touching, but not far apart. Arthur had asked Eames to stay the night, and he’d accepted. 

“I’ve got a job in Chicago,” Arthur said suddenly, his voice sounding loud in the dark. “And Milan after that.”

Eames wasn’t sure where he was going with that, but replied, “I’m back in Paris for a couple of week starting on Tuesday.”

“Forge?”

“Nah. Topside thing. Easy money.”

“And then what?” There was something in Arthur’s voice Eames couldn't place. Clearly the question had a right and a wrong answer, but he wasn’t sure what they could be.

“Not sure,” he answered. “San Paolo for a while, maybe. Or maybe stay on in Paris and see what else is up there. Maybe dig up another job.”

“But not Mombasa?”

It hit Eames then what Arthur was asking, and he couldn’t stop himself from a stupid smile. “No, Arthur,” he said softly. “Not Mombasa.”


End file.
